


On My Honour

by nothinbuttherain



Category: Asoiaf - Fandom, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: ASoIaF, F/M, asoiaf au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5637808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothinbuttherain/pseuds/nothinbuttherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Based on the prompt: Will/Finn + hand kisses; ASOIAF/Dunk and Egg AU; this is basically just The Hedge Knight + The Sworn Sword with a bit of Will/Finn thrown in for good measure; Will’s POV. </p>
<p>Teaser: "The feature that catches his attention the most however are her eyes. Green eyes, big and bright and bold, far too bold to belong to a lowborn peasant as he’d mistakenly assumed upon catching sight of her ahead of him.  Unmistakably then, by her garb and by her gaze, he realises that she’s a highborn lady and worse than that, much worse, a highborn lady whose arm he’s just grabbed, a highborn lady he’s just accosted in the streets, and him a mere, common born hedge knight at that. </p>
<p>Colour floods his cheeks and heat rushes into them as well and he knows he must look an even bigger fool now with his face shining like a beacon but he can’t seem to stop it from becoming redder and redder under her mildly curious scrutiny."</p>
            </blockquote>





	On My Honour

Gently and gratefully patting the neck of his tired horse, Will trots into Bitterbridge alone without a trail of servants and attendants to bellow orders and send the stable boys dashing to obey them while smallfolk bow and curtsey as he passes.

Evidence of the kind of high lords and landed knights that can command that kind of respect bordering on reverence from the lowborn peasants of Bitterbridge is everywhere however. Servants scurry around like so many frantic mice around his feet, their nest disturbed by this sudden influx of demanding and imposing guests that they must tend to.

Will tries desperately to look at home knowing the kind of company he’s about to ride into, insisting to himself over and over that he has as much right as any to be and ride here, wanting nothing more than to blend in with the milling crowds around him and avoid attracting any undue notice, a feat that would have been considerably easier if he hadn’t stood well over six feet tall, and him not yet done all his growing either.

Sliding down off of the big destrier that’s faithfully borne him all this way he ducks his head and hunches his shoulders, doing all he can to appear shorter and smaller than he is, a habit he can’t remember falling in to, having always been larger than most everyone around him, even as a young boy, then takes Storm’s reigns and leads him through the throngs that line the packed streets.

The bustling activity around him, though it makes it difficult to navigate, well, _anywhere_ , cheers him for the fact that the talk he’d heard on the roads around here is clearly true, at least in part. Fellow hedge knights and common travellers alike have all been buzzing with energy and excitement and have spoken of little else the past few days but the tourney at Bitterbridge that Lord Caswell is staging in honour of his daughter’s nameday and is, it’s been said, offering a prize beyond compare to the victorious champion.

Truth be told, Will hasn’t entered himself in a tourney in over half a year, though he has trained as much as he can, having lacked the means to make the risk of potentially losing all he owns worth chancing his arm in the lists and denying him the ability to reclaim him if the day went against him.

 Now though, service taken in the employ of a lord in the Reach having problems with raiders from the Iron Islands has given him a fatter purse than usual and the means to suffer a loss. That and the talk being so wild and that he was passing so near to Bitterbridge, he couldn’t help but talk himself into entering himself this time.

Before he can ride on the morrow however, or even rest comfortably tonight, he has a small but important matter that needs attending to. Knowing who to seek out to attend to it for him is proving altogether more difficult than expected however.

The packed streets make it difficult to comfortably and leisurely search them until he stumbles across a likely looking helper and though it also means that there’s no shortage of people he might have asked for assistance they all seem far too intent on their no doubt extremely urgent business to spare him so much as a glance, never mind stopping to answer his questions.

Becoming a little desperate, wanting to be able to get out of the heat and the packed streets and find himself a nice, quiet place to camp, he spots a figure ahead of him moving with quite a different walk to the frantic people around them, meandering comfortably along with no set destination apparently in mind and he decides that if he’s to ask anyone he’ll have the most luck with her.

While he dislikes the attention his size can attract he’s grateful for it on some occasions and wading through the heaving streets with significantly more ease than a smaller man is one of them as he hurries to try and catch his quarry who seems to be having no trouble parting the crowds either, despite her petite figure.

Finally he gets close enough to reach out and catch their arm, “I’m sorry, Miss-“ he begins, a little breathless as he manages to tug on the sleeve of her dress, “I was only wondering if you could tell me where I might-“

He breaks off abruptly and rather foolishly when the young woman whose arm he had managed to catch turns slowly to face him, one eyebrow arched in apparent surprise at this intrusion.

She’s dressed much more finely than he had first thought from the roughspun brown cloak that had shielded the fine silk gown she has one from his sight though he can see it plain enough now. Her hair is thick and set in large, soft curls that frame her face nicely and despite his shock and how wrong-footed he feels, he has no difficulty whatsoever in coming to the conclusion that she’s incredibly pretty.

The feature that catches his attention the most however are her eyes. Green eyes, big and bright and bold, far too bold to belong to a lowborn peasant as he’d mistakenly assumed upon catching sight of her ahead of him.  Unmistakably then, by her garb and by her gaze, he realises that she’s a highborn lady and worse than that, much worse, a highborn lady whose arm he’s just grabbed, a highborn lady he’s just accosted in the streets, and him a mere, common born hedge knight at that.

Colour floods his cheeks and heat rushes into them as well and he knows he must look an even bigger fool now with his face shining like a beacon but he can’t seem to stop it from becoming redder and redder under her mildly curious scrutiny.

_What must she be thinking of me_? He wonders dismally, _a great oaf without enough courtesy to fill a thimble barging into her in the streets. It’s a wonder she didn’t scream for a guard to have me carted off to some dungeon._

“Pardons m’lady.” he manages to stammer at last, trying to scrape together some empty gallantry to mouth at her and enable him to make his escape but any niceties he ever knew all seem to have deserted him in his hour of need and now he comes to think on it properly, he can’t remember ever having conversed with a highborn lady, or indeed spent this much time in their company before.

_And a fine job of it I’m doing now, keep going like this and I won’t be spending time in anyone’s company save a headsman._

Glancing up at her again he catches the emblem sewn on her dress, a charging centaur, bow and arrow raised and realises that she’s the lady of Bitterbridge, the lord’s fair daughter in whose honour this tourney is being staged.

Fumbling hopelessly he tries to formulate some apology for Lady...Lady what? Panic engulfs him as he realises that he can’t remember her name.

_This whole tourney is being fought in her honour,_ he reminds himself forcibly, _you must have heard her name a half a hundred times on the road, think now._

 Lady J,  Lady J, he’s sure that’s how it begins. Lady Jenna perhaps? Or Jenny. No, neither of those sound right and they don’t seem to suit her either. Feeling utterly hopeless and without the words to string two and two together and come up with four he tries not to let this distraction show and get back to the apology he was trying to make to her.

“I thought, I mean I only wanted to-“ he mumbles himself into silence again, unable to find the words to explain his mistake to her without sounding horribly insulting.

To his faint surprise his hopeless floundering doesn’t seem to be sending her running for a maester to take a look at him. Instead she smiles warmly, her eyes softening at his predicament and says in a rich, melodic voice, “Think nothing of it, ser, you have done me no insult.”

He can’t think of anything to say to that so he says nothing at all, just shuffles his feet and waits for her to say more, which seems like the right thing to do, “You wanted to ask me something?” she prompts expectantly.

It doesn’t seem entirely proper to ask a highborn lady to help him attend to his business but on the other hand it seems even less proper to refuse to answer a direct question of hers so, still flushing as red and hot as a sun at the peak of summer in Dorne he mumbles, “I only wondered, m’lady, if you could tell me, please, where I might find someone to repaint my shield for me, for, for the tourney on the morrow.”

Another smile lifts the corners of her lifts and she japes playfully, “I find myself almost glad I am not allowed to participate in the tourney now, why if I were to meet you in the lists I would be most alarmed, your size and strength are sure to make you a most formidable opponent.”

“Yes m’lady- I mean thank you, m’lady.” He mumbles stupidly to his toes, afraid to look into those astonishing eyes lest he get lost in them all over again, wishing that he had been able to find something a little wittier to say to her.

She doesn’t seem unduly perturbed by his shyness though; she only offers him another gentle smile and points down the street, giving him a list of clear instructions to a small place on the corner of a nearby street where he’ll be able to find someone to paint his arms on his shield for him.

Cheeks still blazing he manages to thank her for her help and attempts another clumsy apology for disturbing her in the first place. Once again she brushes away his feeble ‘apologies m’lady’ then brightly wishes him luck in the lists.

After she leaves him he hurries off, his head still full of the bright young lady whose name he still can’t quite remember, her smile, her stunning eyes, the way her dress flowed gently down over her slight frame to accentuate the curves of her body.

_Don’t think that._ He chastises himself, _she’s a highborn lady...A beautiful highborn lady, but a highborn lady all the same, and not made for the likes of me...Though those lips were made to be kissed...But not by the likes of me._

Following her instructions he manages to locate the little house squeezed onto the corner of a row, exactly where she’d told him it would be. He meets with the girl inside when she comes to the door and confirms that she can paint his shield. When she asks him what he wants on it he rummages in his pocket for a moment before withdrawing a rough sketch to show her, “Can you do that?” he asks her, “I’d like the dove to be white and the field to be gold?”

Smiling she nods widely at which point he asks how long it’ll be. She smiles and tells him it should only take a few hours. He thanks her warmly then turns and wanders off. He sees the master of the games first and registers himself for the lists the next day, then he makes his way out of town in search of a comfortable campsite, sets up beneath the stars and sets a comfortably camp up for him to return to.

Bracing himself he pats Storm goodbye and then heads back into town, thinking to hear something of interest that may benefit him when he jousts tomorrow, some titbit of gossip about a potential opponent that may benefit him.

He didn’t discover anything that he didn’t know about any of the other knights he may face in his tilts but, on the corner of a street he walked up, outside a small, shabby tavern he did find the reason that so many knights had come out in force to honour Lord Caswell’s daughter on her nameday.

“She’s the prize.” He heard a farmer confessing to the innkeep he had been gossiping with, “The lord’s own sweet maiden daughter, the Lady Julie, her hand is to be offered in marriage to the champion of the final tilt....”

The conversation had run on further but Will had moved out of earshot without any desire to listen in on the particulars of what the champion might look forward to on the night of his victory but he felt his stomach contract slightly feeling sorry for the young lady.

A tournament seemed to him like the wrong way to arrange a marriage for a daughter. Even in political matchings the couple would at least be permitted to meet and to know that they were benefitting their house and hall in the match but this seemed a rather cold way for the lord to part with his sweet daughter. But what could a hedge knight of low birth like him hope to know of highborn politics and marriages?

Another thought takes precedence over vague wonderings about the merits of such a match when he realises with a sudden swoop of horror that nearly freezes him in place where he stands that it was her, the young Lady Julie he had caught earlier. The Lady Julie, Lord Caswell’s sweet maiden daughter, in whose honour this whole tourney was taking place and he had accosted her in the middle of the street and spoken to her as bold as brass without a second thought.

_I must have pease porridge between my ears for true._ He thought miserably shaking his head, able to feel his ears turning red at the mere memory.

Glancing up he sees that the sun has nearly sunk completely beneath the horizon and decides that enough time has passed, his shield should be painted and dry by now and takes a moment before heading off to retrieve it.

The sight of it lifts his spirits even a little. The work is fine and the girl has managed to replicate his rough drawing almost perfectly in bright, explosive colours across the thick oak shield. Smiling he thanks her for the fine work and gives her a little more than she had been asking for to show his appreciation for her efforts and skill.

All of his affairs in town now concluded he leaves it to the small grove of trees he had chosen earlier to make his camp where he has a quick supper, nerves starting to flutter faintly in his stomach and settles down to sleep, trying not to think of the Lady Julie and to focus on his upcoming tilts where he’ll need all his wits about him if he’s to triumph at all.

Despite his earlier considerations and all his best intentions, he can’t quite help the dream of the Lady Julie beaming down at him, those wildfire eyes aglow when he ends the tournament victorious and her father is somehow glad to marry his eldest and only maiden daughter to a rough hedge knight named Will.

****

Will wakes at sunrise the next morning to find a clear, crisp day that he judges to be good conditions for the jousts that are to come. After hastily mixing up some oats to break his fast and bolting it down too fast to allow him to taste any more than the last few mouthfuls, which is all to the good, he heads back to the castle to find out who his first opponent will be.

The lord has opted for one of the simpler forms of tourney and each pair has simply been matched up by the master of games. Upon asking, Will is told that he’ll first have to ride against an Aegon Frey and that their contest will be part of the third group of jousters of the day.

 He knows enough about Aegon Frey to know that he’s almost two feet taller than him for a start and that his first opponent enjoys drinking wine a good deal better than he does riding horses or jousting, he might be named for the conqueror of Westeros but unless he deliberately throws himself from his horse during their tilt, Will feels he has a fairly good chance of winning his first match and the news settles his nerves a little.

While he’s happy enough with his opponent, he wishes that their joust could have come earlier in the day. He knows he should be pleased for the opportunity to watch a fair few matches and get an idea of conditions and the competition but for today, for his first joust, he would rather have been one of the first ones to compete, knowing from experience that his nerves are only going to build throughout the day.

He watches as many tilts as he can, trying to find strengths and weaknesses, making careful note of who advances victorious, of noted champions from past tourneys, promising new talent and even a mystery knight who delights the crowd at his appearance but quickly disappoints and has to be carried insensate from the field on his very first pass with his opponent, a tall grim looking hedge knight with a cracked anvil on his shield that Will marks as someone he’d rather not meet as he appears both precise and cruel.

There are enough skilful warriors to make the contest interesting and exciting but not so many that Will feels he won’t have a hope of winning at least a few tilts of his own. Though he hasn’t partook in tourneys recently and he might be, admittedly, somewhat rusty, he knows that he jousts rather well, he has a steady, precise lance and if he’s knocked from his horse but able to continue the contest on the ground he’s better still with the bastard sword on his hip.

He doesn’t go as far as to try and convince himself that his dream of marrying the Lady Julie could come true though he’s found himself wondering if he would want it to. Several times that morning he’s found his eyes wandering from the jousting knights in front of him where they ought to be to the viewing box where they young lady sits resplendent beside her father in fine silks and fabulous jewels, her hair twisted into an elegant knot behind her head but with such a miserable look on her face that Will is quite sure she’s less than happy about this arrangement and the idea of marrying one of the men on the field before her.

So he’s still thinking as he hurries back to his camp to don his armour and collect Storm for his turn. The old horse has been with him for some time now and he’s grown fond of him and respectful of the advantage of having a close bond with his horse for jousting. Man and beast must move as a seamless whole and trust one another’s instincts more than commands which he trusts the big destrier to do for him.

Once he’s put on his armour he checks every buckle and strap thrice to make sure they’re all where they’re meant to be. The knight who had taken him to squire for him and taught him everything he now knows, everything he’s going to use to try and win his contests had been most insistent when it came to armouring himself for battle and had drilled into him how important it was to have one’s armour put on properly.

When Will rides onto the ground for his first tilt then, he’s confident that his armour will see him through well. Trotting into the centre of the churned up earth he tips his lance towards the viewing box and the fair lady whose hand they’re all competing to win. He thinks that she recognises him and offers him a rare, genuine smile when she nods to him and even mouths ‘luck’ to him but he might just have been dreaming again, the way he’d dreamed of her as he slept the night before. That thought makes his ears glow red again and he gives himself a little shake, determined to concentrate on his horse and lance and shield and not the beautiful lady watching him.

As he readies himself in position he peers through the thin slit of his helm to find his opponent on the opposite side of the field. Aegon Frey is reeling so much in his saddle that it doesn’t look as though Will is going to have to touch him at all with his lance, a strong gust of wind seems to be all that’s required to knock him off of his horse.

In spite of this, Will tries not to allow himself to become complacent, or to start thinking of the lady again and instead closes his eyes as the herald announces them while they take their places, trying to calm himself. He places a hand on Storm’s side, a light touch, a habit, to settle the big horse, though he doesn’t truly need it. Storm has ridden in jousts and war, he knows what’s coming and what to do and is as calm under Will as any horse can be surrounded by strange sights and the screams of the excitable crowd.

Sitting up straight in his saddle Will waits until he hears the trumpet blare than kicks Storm forwards, urging him up to a faster pace, deftly centring his lance as he does so, aiming it directly between the two blue towers on the knight’s shield, a somewhat difficult ask as Aegon Frey seems incapable of holding even his shield steady never mind his lance which is weaving like a green boy after his fourth cup of strong wine.

Will strikes Frey’s shield on the bridge between the blue towers with a resounding crunch and its owner crashes to the ground with a rather undignified thump and sprawls there while his horse skitters away in the opposite direction and has to be caught by a stray groom he happens past.

Will rides another two successful tilts that day, the first won after breaking nine lances against his opponent, the younger son of a minor branch of House Baratheon upon which Lord Caswell decreed he had had the better lance and the surer seat and awarded him the victory.

The second contest was against the hedge knight he had watched earlier with the cracked anvil splashed across the front of his shield and a mean look in his eyes. In their first pass he had struck Will’s shield so hard it had skittered off and the blunted point of the lance had buried into his shoulder causing him to grit his teeth in pain and grip Storm so tightly with his legs that the destrier had trumpeted loudly in protest. Somehow though he had managed to keep his seat and had managed to unhorse the anvil knight on third tilt after the second had resulted in nothing but splintered lances.

The wound he had taken in the final tilt had proved a little grimmer than he had first anticipated and it sees him  trudging off to a large, plain white pavilion to trouble the maester to bind it up and prevent it from mortifying.

While he’s waiting with a poultice covering the somewhat interestingly mottled patch of skin above the point the lance had punched, trying not to grimace overmuch at how badly it’s stinging and smarting, the flap of the tent lifts behind him and the maester bows and mouths a stream of flowery pleasantries at the intruder.

Twisting around with difficulty on account of his shoulder, Will finds himself nose to nose with the Lady Julie, still garbed in all of her silken finery and able to look him in the eye now that he’s seated while she remains standing.

“M’lady,” he says on impulse, blinking at her in surprise, wondering if he should stand and attempt to bow or if he should remain where he is, thinking that bowing and splattering the lady in the foul smelling poultice that’s apparently cleaning and healing his wound might not win him any favours with her, or with her lord father.

“Good ser.” She replies with a small smile, inclining her head to him, “You rode well today.” She tells him quietly, “Are you badly wounded?”

“Thank you m’lady,” he says, feeling his ears glowing red again and knowing that his cheeks are starting to turn faintly pink at her compliment, “And no, m’lady, it’s only a scratch, truly.”

“Only a scratch you say?” she murmurs, taking a step closer to him on his bench and brushing her fingers ever so delicately against the skin around the wound, carefully not to touch the poultice.

“Aye m’lady,” Will confirms, feeling a faint shiver rush through him at the feel of her fingers brushing against him, now almost absently tracing a previous scar from an arrow that had pierced straight through him in a mishap in some castle yard years and years ago, her touch more effective than the pinch of milk of the poppy the maester had allowed him for the pain.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” She asks, her eyes bright and concerned. He can’t think why they should be, he doesn’t mean anything to her, no more than any other hedge knight in the lists, but it isn’t his place to question the wills and whims of highborn ladies and so he doesn’t, he simply answers her questions.

“It stings like the seven bloody hells m’lady but-“ He finds himself blushing again realising that he’d cursed in front of her, something you probably shouldn’t do in front of a lady of gentle birth.

_She’s going to think my face is permanently this colour._ He thinks morosely, _all I ever seem to do in her presence is embarrass myself._

But she smiles thinly and doesn’t seem at all offended by his language, she only says, “You were very brave, ser, to continue on to win that match after sustaining such an injury.”

His throat feels very dry and his whole body seems acutely aware of how intimately close to him she is. The light scent of her perfume wafts over his senses and that makes him shiver too. He can’t think of a single thing to say to her, gallant or otherwise, words seem to have deserted him completely, witty or utterly foolish it makes no matter, all have left him now.

The maester saves him just as he’s moving his mouth to begin stammering something he would almost certainly have regretted at her by bustling over and squeezing himself past the lady, with many fluttery, flowery apologies and niceties, to probe at his wound again. The man’s fingers are none to gentle in their poking and examining and he has an unfortunate knack of finding precisely the worst spots to apply pressure but Will forces him to sit as straight and still as a lance and not wince while the lady watches.

He thinks that she knows he’s trying to do this though, by the way she turns away from him, as though to hide a smile, and a moment later he understands why and realises he’d been holding his breath to stop from cursing so much that his face had turned almost purple with the strain.

“How long will he have to stay here, maester?” The lady enquires of the small man in grey as he begins fussing with bandages and complaining about Will’s size.

“Not long my lady.” He replies courteously, all gripes suddenly forgotten as he turns to her, “Once I have these bandages in place he’ll be free to leave.”

“And will he still be able to compete on the morrow?” She wants to know, her eyes flickering up to Will’s face before she focuses her attention on the maester once more.

The man scowls impatiently and complains, “I would suggest any man with sense not to but I know better than to try and tell a knight not to joust,” he stumps off to deal with some of his other charges then, after giving the knots on Will’s bandages an unnecessarily sharp tug and goes off muttering about the folly of knights knocking each other off horses with sticks.

When he glances back up again, a little bemused by this outburst, he sees that the young lady is struggling to hide her amusement. Once she’s regained her composure she straightens herself and looks up at him as he struggles back into his tunic.

“I wonder ser if I might trouble you for a word, just the two of us?” she says, her voice soft and so quiet if they hadn’t been so close he would have missed it.

Will blinks at her. He’s not quite sure what highborn ladies usually make of hedge knights but he’s almost certain this isn’t something that happens that often. However, he dare not say no to a fine lady of noble blood and, though he wonders if it’s unchivalrous to consider it, his heart beats a little faster at the idea of spending time alone with her.

Bowing his head as he shambles to his feet he mumbles, “If it please you, m’lady.”

In response to that she offers him a glowing smile and nods, “It would, ser, it would.”

“Then it, it would please me too m’lady,” he tells her, as courteously as he can, hoping that she doesn’t find some cause to make him blush again.

As they move to the door he hastens to lift the tent flap for her, becoming a little tangled in the trailing ropes for a moment and fumbling to keep from making an utter fool of himself. She appears not to notice his struggles however and simply smiles and ducks back out into the fresh air and sunlight.

Will hastens to follow her, wondering what she could want with him and why she would choose to come and see him after his tilts. “M’lady,” he ventures cautiously, trying his best to remember every pleasantry he’s ever heard or been taught, “Might I, might I ask you a question?”

Turning back to him as she strides a pace or so ahead, leading the way, she tosses him a bright smile and quips, “I believe you just did, ser,” he doesn’t know how to reply to that but she saves him, letting loose a small peal of laughter before she says evenly, “But you may ask me whatever else you like, certainly.”

He knows his ears are red again but he tries not to dwell on that and instead says softly, “Won’t you be missed at the lists this afternoon m’lady? The tourney is being held in your honour.”

Her eyes flash slightly and he worries a moment that he’s somehow upset or offended her but finally, in rather clipped tones and with a wry smile twisting her lips she answers him, “I shan’t be missed ser, have no fear,” a glimmer of amusement flickers in her eyes and she adds, “Are you afraid someone will mistake you for a mad robber night making off with the castle lady?”

“It, well it did cross my mind m’lady,” he admits to her, shuffling his big feet awkwardly and ducking beneath a low sign outside a brothel.

Smiling broadly she says, “Fear not good ser, all the guards are busy watching the tilts and I’m not like to name you such in anyone’s hearing. You’re accompanying me at my behest are you not?”

“I, I am m’lady,” he confirms for her, padding along in her wake and wondering where it is she’s taking him. It doesn’t appear as though she has any set destination in mind, she simply appears to be wandering among the streets as it please her, stopping here and there for a word with a tavern keeper or a groom.

“Where are you from, ser?” She asks him politely while they amble among the streets, much quieter now than they had been the first day Will had arrived at Bitterbridge, “I don’t recall the herald naming your place of origin.”

“Because he never did, m’lady,” Will mumbles, feeling a faint flush enter his cheeks at being reminded of the vast difference in their stations ,”I’m a hedge knight, m’lady, I’ve got no keep or castle or lands. I come from nowhere and from everywhere.”

“From nowhere and from everywhere,” she repeats thoughtfully, her expression neutral and unreadable one moment then alive with merriment and enthusiasm the next as she tells him, “Have you the voice to be a singer, ser? You have the words for it, it seems to me.”

“Begging your pardons m’lady but I don’t see how I’ve got either,” he informs the ground between his toes, “I only spoke the truth is all.”

“Then you ought definitely become a singer, ser,” she says, that infectious smile still plain as day upon her face, “A knight once told me all singers were liars, you could improve the reputation of the breed somewhat with your honesty.”

“If, if it please m’lady,” he says uncertainly, not at all sure what else he can say.

She laughs again. He likes her laugh, high and sweet, bursting from her often and loudly, “I feel I owe you an apology ser,” she says, gently brushing his arm with her fingers, “I ought not tease you so, you’ve gone quite red, please forgive me my japes, ser?”

“Of course, m’lady,” he says at once, turning even redder as he does so.

“But you did not come in to this world clad in armour with that dove painted upon your breast did you, ser?” she continues evenly, “That is to say you were born in some place in these Seven Kingdoms and did some of your growing there did you not?”

“Aye m’lady, I did,” he agrees cordially, “That place was King’s Landing as it please you m’lady.”

That answer seems to please her and she gifts him with another of her smiles, “I thought I heard a trace of that accent in your speech,” she confesses to him, letting him in on the source of this smile.

They wander a little farther until Will feels compelled to say something, anything o hear her voice again and have her eyes turned to him once more and finds a rather foolish question spilling from his lips as a result, “And you m’lady?” before she can answer he hastily tries to make his meaning plainer and make himself seem less witless, “I mean, or, what I meant was, I know your ladyship was born here at Caswell I only meant have you, m’lady, have you been elsewhere in Westeros to, to visit?”

_Snails move faster than my wits and there’s naught but pease porridge between my ears that’s a certainty._ Will thinks miserably, hanging his head as though this will somehow hide the fact he’s turned an even deeper shade of scarlet than before.

The lady doesn’t seem to mind his clumsy attempts at courtesy and conversation however and simply smiles gently and lays a hand on his arm, bidding him to look up at her once more which he does at once.

“No, ser, I haven’t,” she answers him with quiet but rather cool courtesy, “I should like to, I should like to very much. It is easy to tire of seeing the same surroundings every day and never knowing anything but them. I daresay you have a far finer life than I in many ways, why you must have ridden to almost every corner of the Seven Kingdoms and if you have not well you have the ability to do so. I envy you that, ser, I do.”

“It’s a shame there are no hedge ladies, m’lady, then you could go wherever you please too,” he blurts out without thinking, feeling a familiar miserable sinking sensation in his stomach as his wits catch up with his words and he realises what he’s said. The only thing in his favour is that he didn’t blurt out the very first thing that had occurred to him which had been to inform her that she would be welcome to travel with him, that he would be pleased to ride from Dorne to the Wall with her by his side.

_Don’t be a fool. Highborn ladies cannot be hedge knights or ‘hedge ladies’ think think think, there’s a reason you’re supposed to have brains in your head not rocks._ He chides himself harshly.

His clumsy words earn him another bright peal of laughter from her and she smiles warmly at him and says, “This is a notion you must put to my lord father, ser Will. I would very much like to see his reaction to the idea of his daughter becoming a ‘hedge lady’ as you name it.”

Will blanches at that and hastily mutters, “If it please you, m’lady, I’d rather not I, I can’t say I think he’d like that idea one bit.”

There’s a sad tinge to her smile this time as she dips her head and says in a rather constrained voice, “As you say ser, I feel you have the measure of him already...” She lapses into thoughtful silence for a moment then seems to discover something of her former bounce and asks in a somewhat forced tone it seems to him, “Ser Will, is that all there is to your name ser? Or is Will short for something, William mayhaps?”

“Not, not William m’lady no,” he says then finds himself confessing, his cheeks flaming a colour he’s sure by now resembles beetroot, “Wilfred is my full name m’lady but, but most everyone just calls me Will.”

“And do you prefer Will to Wilfred, ser?” she asks patiently.

“Aye m’lady,” he says, a little too quickly, “That is I do if, if it please you, m’lady.”

“It pleases me to name you as you wish, ser,” she says smoothly, smiling to him. After a moment she stops so suddenly and decisively in the middle of the road that it startles him and he nearly walks right into her. She appears not to notice this however and simply tosses back her curls and says, “Would you like to get away from the castle for a time, Will? We could go riding together, the lands around Caswell are rather beautiful, it would please me to show them to you.”

“Just, just us, m’lady?” Will asks stupidly, blinking down at her in astonishment, wishing the moment he’s said it that he could somehow unsay it.

“Yes, ser, just us,” she says with another wry smile, “Or do you imagine I wish to invite a troop of septas with me to ensure I don’t misbehave?” Will has no answer for that so he does what he seems best at and blushes a good deal more, “I promise I shan’t if that would put your mind at ease. Now, will you come riding with me?”

“Of course.” Will replies, this time without thinking, then, remembering his courtesies, he adds on a hasty, “M’lady, only,” he pauses a moment not wanting to offend her but she’s turned on him, one eyebrow raised and he doesn’t feel as though he has any choice but to mumble, “Will you, will you be permitted to leave the castle with me, m’lady?”

Her eyes flash and narrow in fury at this and he knows he’s said quite the wrong thing but he’s too thrown for a moment to manage to find more than garbled mumbles before her rage crashes over him with the force of a charging destrier, “Do you think I require the permission of some man before I can so much as breathe, ser?”

“No of course not!” he cries aghast, desperately wishing he hadn’t spoken, the familiar feeling of colour rising in his cheeks only adding to his predicament, “It was not my intention to give offence m’lady I swear it,” he tells her as solemnly and courteously as he can, “I only meant to ask, that is I only wondered if you might need a guard or some such? It wouldn’t do for anything to happen to you, m’lady.”

_The most that’s like to happen to her is I talk her to death, stupid great stumbletongue that I am, what she must think of me._

Once more however the young lady only softens at his hopeless attempts at gallantry and making amends and she murmurs softly, “I misspoke ser, I pray you will forgive me.”

“Of course I will,” he blurts without thinking and that makes her smile again.

“Your concern is appreciated, my gallant knight,” she says, making him blush red again, “But I can look after myself well enough, I assure you,” glancing up at him again she smiles and adds, her tone a trifle more playful now, “Besides, you don’t intend to allow any harm to come to me, do you ser?”

“I, I wouldn’t dream of it, m’lady,” he tells her very seriously to which her smile only broadens.

“Well then, I’m sure everything shall be perfectly fine in that case, come.”

Will collects Storm from where they had been sheltering him after his tilts while he was being tended by the maester and then they make their way to the castle stables whereupon Will stands and watches in mild amusement tinged with faint astonishment at the fierceness contained within such a small person, as m’lady gives orders to the grooms to have her horse saddled and made ready for her to ride at once. All of them leap to obey her without question and for all the notice they take of Will he might as well have been a broken saddle cinch.

Once she’s mounted up and urged her mare out of the stables, with Will hastening to keep up, he sees that she’s as comfortable ahorse as he is and that she appears infinitely more so perched high atop her saddle than she ever did in the cluttered, stuffy viewing box at the tourney. He almost says something to her about this but then changes his mind and bites his tongue and trots along a little behind her, allowing her to lead him.

They trot easily out of the gates and follow a small but well-worn and easy to follow path as it meanders off into the flat land around Bitterbridge. Will is lost in thought, trying to discover the reason a beautiful, spirited young highborn lady wishes to spend her time with him of all people when the lady in question swivels around in her seat and grins a feral, wicked little grin that makes him shiver all over then simply says “Catch me, ser, if you can.”

Before Will can ask her to explain quite what she means she shows him. Putting her heels into her horse she laughs loudly with a faint edge of wild abandonment and then bursts forwards across the land, flowing as smooth as silk with her horse, flying along like a quarrel loosed from a crossbow.

Recovering quickly from his shock he finds a wild smile dragging across his own lips and he spurs Storm into a gallop in order to ride the young lady down. This proves to be far more difficult than he had ever anticipated, she’s a natural on horseback and knows the land far better than he does, every time he thinks he’s almost caught her she flashes that wicked smirk at him once more and tears off in an unexpected direction leaving him struggling to keep up with her once more.

By the time he manages to catch up with her in a small glade a good mile or two from Bitterbridge both of them are breathing hard and their horses’ flanks are damp with sweat. When he realises that she’s not merely luring into a false sense of security before tearing off again he hastens off of Storm to help her down from her own mount but she’s already leapt lightly to the ground and is patting her mare and offering her an apple from the saddle bags by the time he stumbles over to her.

Unable to think of any reason for him being so near to her now he clumsily doubles back on himself and busies himself with Storm. The sound of his name makes him look up just in time to snatch the apple she tosses to him from the air. “For your horse,” she tells him with a smile, trotting over to join them after securing her own steed and patting Storm’s neck approvingly as Will offers him her apple.

“He’s a beautiful animal,” she tells him appreciatively, looking Storm up and down.

Will finds himself smiling shyly and confesses, “His name is Storm.”

She arches a lively eyebrow at that, “Is that wise, ser? To name your steeds? My father once told my brother it was not so, too many die in battle, it’s easier to become attached if they’re named.”

“The knight who taught me all I know said the same to me once,” he admits quietly then shrugs and adds rather unnecessarily, “it was one lesson I never listened to though.”

“Quite right,” she smiles warmly, patting Storm once more before she says, her tone a little brisker now, “But come ser, I have food and wine for us to share, let’s leave the horses to recover for a time.”

“As you say, m’lady,” he agrees, carefully tying Storm to a thick tree trunk nearby and leaving him to graze as he follows her into the centre of the clearing.

He wonders for a moment if he ought to try and find a blanket or some such but she removes these thoughts simply and swiftly when she settles herself down almost defiantly in the grass without so much as a second thought. Will finds himself smiling, his affection and admiration of her seeming to grow with each moment he spends in her company.

They talk for a time, of everything and of nothing. The difference in their birth and upbringing reveals itself as a topic to bond over rather than something to force distance between them. She’s eager to hear all about his adventures, even if all that entails is him describing for her precisely what Dorne looks like and the main differences between a Dornish sand-steeds and her own slim, flighty mare. The world of highborn politics and courtesy and custom remains almost as much a mystery to him as the Dornish sands are to her and they pass an amicable hour sharing histories and educating the other a little on their life and experiences.

Finally, just as Will is really beginning to relax around her and has, nearly, stopped, at her insistence, calling her ‘m’lady’ in every other sentence, her tone becomes a deal more serious and she says quietly, “Ser Will, if I were to ask you something, do you swear on your honour as a knight to tell me it true?”

“I, of course m’lad-“  he begins then stops and tries to correct himself, fumbling hopelessly before he finally manages to force out, “I swear it, on my honour as a knight.”

Pausing a moment and twining two long blades of grass together apparently unconscious of what she’s doing she finally tosses them away after having shredded them into tiny pieces, letting the wind catch them from her fingers and says quietly, “Can you win this tourney, ser? Have you the skill to do so in this company?”

For a moment all Will can do is blink at her in startled confusion, quite taken aback by this sudden and blunt question, unsure where this has come from and why she’s asking him in such a way and even less sure of how to answer her.

“I don’t know, m’lady,” he eventually murmurs carefully to her, “Mayhaps, if luck favoured me, I might win but it is by no means a certainty,”

“Is anything in this life, ser?” she asks softly, her eyes dancing as she watches him carefully.

“I couldn’t say m’lady, I’m no scholar or maester to think these things, I’m only a hedge knight,” feeling rather self-conscious under her gaze he clears his throat and returns to a topic he knows a little more about, “Stray mishaps can befall even the greatest of warriors,” he reminds her evenly, “And there many good knights in this field.”

Shaking her head with a small, sad smile, she lightly brushes her fingers over the top of his hand and murmurs quietly, “Nay, ser, I think you are the only good knight present at this tourney.”

Will blinks at her, unsure of what to say then, at last, he manages to mumble hesitantly, “M’lady I, I am only a hedge knight and of low birth.”

“And yet I believe you to be a better man than any here ser, of that I have no doubt,” she says quietly but sincerely to him. Will doesn’t know what to say to that but he’s saved the necessity of fumbling for words that he doesn’t have as she puts another question to him, “Do you know what the champion of this tourney will receive for a prize?” she puts a faint emphasis on the last word that, delicate though it is, makes her feelings on the matter entirely too obvious.

“Aye, m’lady,” he mumbles, feeling suddenly ashamed of even knowing the answer to her question, “They, they will be offered your hand in marriage, will they not?”

“They will,” she replies heavily, looking so morose that Will wonders whether the most chivalrous thing to do might not be to simply pull her onto his horse and ride away with her until they can’t ride any longer, “My father’s notion not my own I promise you,” she tells him, her eyes downcast, her tone flat and empty for the first time since he’s met her.

“Don’t, don’t you wish to be wed?” he asks her tentatively, thinking that he may like some day to have a sweet lady by his side with a small keep for them to fill with laughing children.

“Someday, perhaps,” she admits before an edge of bitterness returns to her words and she says, “But not to anyone that is not of my choosing.”

Will chews on that a moment then says, with even more hesitancy than before, “Your father is not honouring you with this tourney, is he?”

“No,” she whispers miserably, “He’s publically forcing me to accept a _worthy_ suitor and marry me off to whoever chances to prevail in this mummer’s farce. And he frames it well, with flowery words about honour and bravery, about having men compete to win my hand, to prove themselves worthy of his sweet daughter. But the result is the same, a marriage I do not want but can do nothing to avoid.”

“I wish there were something I could do to help you m’lady,” he mumbles, again without thinking. 

Her eyes study him for a moment, rich, deep green eyes that belong lost down some lush forest trail or in the midst of a sea of stars, not locked away in a cold tower room with a cruel husband she can never learn to love because he was never of her choosing, slowly draining the light and life from  their imprisonment then finally she reaches out and ever so lightly touches his arm, “Well, you could call me something other than ‘m’lady’ to begin with, Will.”

The way she says his name makes his stomach contract and his whole body ripple with pleasure, like the feeling of emerging into a warm breath of new sunlight and fresh air after spending the night in the confines of a tent.

“Well, well what would you have me call you instead m’la-“ he breaks off again, screwing up his face and making her laugh lightly.

“Anything but Julie,” she suggests firmly, “I don’t like Julie.”

“I think it’s pretty,” he blurts absently then flushes crimson and hastily gabbles, trying to recover himself, “But I’m sure it can be shortened to Lady J..Lady J...” he’s lost his way entirely, reverting back to his hopeless scrabbling when he had first met her, trying to recall her name but, inexplicably, she’s smiling at him.

“Lady Jay?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. Blinking several times he finally, tentatively, nods his head, ever so uncertain and she repeats it a few more times, “I like it.” She announces at last to his great surprise, “But please, ser, there’s no need to name me lady, Jay will do nicely on its own.”

“Aye m’la-“ he begins automatically then, catching her smile, hastily corrects himself, “Jay.” The word feels queer on his tongue, and more so being spoken to name a highborn lady, but she seems well pleased with his clumsy, accidental invention and so he decides to honour her wishes and call her what she wills him to.

“You said you wished to help me, Will,” she murmurs lightly, her fingers closing delicately, almost absently about his wrist, in a way that makes him quite sure she can feel his fluttering heartbeat, “Did you mean that, truly?”

“I, I did m’la-Jay,” he tells her, stumbling a little over his habit, “Truly.” He adds in an effort to be more convincing.

“I think you can help me, Will,” she says quietly, shifting in a little closer to him, her eyes bright and intense, with an urgency he never would have suspected they could contain.

“How m’la-Jay?” he asks, blushing slightly, but she doesn’t seem perturbed by his continued stumbling between the courtesy and her name.

Biting her lip and taking longer than she has done so far she finally says, with deliberate slowness it seems to Will, “If, if you were to fight in this tourney as my champion, on my behalf, the way none of the rest will do,” she says and her fingers contract tightly around his arm with a desperate strength as her eyes, those beautiful eyes he feels he would do anything for when they look at him like now, bore into his with a consuming desire to make him understand, “And were you to win the tourney and politely decline my hand in marriage, my father couldn’t compel you to marry me and he couldn’t, by the design of his tournament, marry me to anyone that had not proven himself able to vanquish all those sent against him, someone therefore unworthy of my hand,” she breathes softly and he realises how desperate she must be, and the trust she wishes to place in him as she adds in a voice barely above a whisper, so faint it could have been mistaken for a stray breath of wind were she not so close, “So I ask again, Will...Can you win this tourney?”

He wants to spring to his feet and sweep her into his arms and bestow a long, passionate kiss upon her and swear to her on his honour as a knight and by the old gods and the new that he will, that he will do whatever it takes to claim this victory in her name, to truly honour her the way this tourney ought to but something holds him back.

Lowering his eyes a moment before making himself meet her intense gaze once more he tells her the truth, “I, I cannot be sure m’la-Jay...I would do my best to win, for you, as your champion, the way you said, but some mishap or a better knight may well deny me the victory, or else I might-“

He’s grateful when she gives his arm a squeeze and stops him babbling. Leaning in with a soft, sincere smile upon her lips she gently knots her favour around his arm, “That will be enough, good ser,” she murmurs to him, “that will be more than enough.”

She’s so close that he thinks for a moment that she means to kiss him, and for a moment he thinks he means to kiss her too, he’s leaning in, his fingers scrabbling tentatively against her thigh where it brushes up against his knee but both of them seem to falter at the last moment and he hastily pulls away, realising what he’s doing and all the reasons that he shouldn’t.

_She’s a highborn lady._ He chastises himself, _born of noble blood. And you are now her champion besides, it would not be fitting for you to kiss her, no matter how beautiful she may be._

“Just, just one question, if you would m’la-Jay,” he manages to stutter out, both of them feeling strangely taut and charged, an energy between them that neither knows quite what to do with. She raises a curious eyebrow, inviting him to go on and he says slowly, not wishing to offend or misspeak himself again, “Why me?” he asks her plainly, deciding that is the best approach, “There are so many knights here at this tourney, most of better birth and experience than I have....Why would you entrust yourself to me, Jay?”

Considering this for a long moment she finally says, “Because of the way you spoke me when we first met, do you remember?” she asks him. Will does remember, though not fondly, he remembers making a fool of himself in front of a beautiful highborn lady, but she goes on, apparently not noticing his discomfort at the mention of this, “You spoke to me as a person, not some object trussed up in silk and satin.”

Shuffling uncomfortably in place but feeling honour bound to tell her the truth, since she’s clearly mistaken the whole matter he says slowly, “Begging your pardons but that, that wasn’t any gallantry or anything m’lady, I only mistook her for, it, well, t’was a mistake, that’s all, I never meant to, I mean-“

“I know, Will,” she says with a quiet smile. Pausing to marshal her thoughts so it seems she finally says, more slowly and deliberately this time, “You have kind eyes, Will,” she says, “And you have always looked on me with kind eyes, always looked at me as a person, not a pretty highborn lady who can do nothing but what her lord father instructs, nor merely as some champion’s purse. That is how all of them have looked at me, all of those good knights as you would name them, they looked at me as a possession, a prize. You never have.”

Will doesn’t know what to say to that at all and is glad he doesn’t attempt to speak a moment later when she gets to her feet, prompting him to unconsciously mirror her and says simply, “You ask me why, ser? I answer because you are a good knight, a good man, and I felt that I could trust you. That may be folly on my part but I do not think so somehow, I think I have entrusted myself to the right champion.”

“I, I will do my best to, to honour you in the lists tomorrow m’lady.” He tells her softly, dipping his head respectfully to her.

Stretching up as far as she can on her toes she presses a light kiss to his cheek and whispers softly, “Luck be with you, ser.”

****

With his lady’s favour knotted tight about his arm Will rides his next tilts better than he ever has, spurred on by her encouragement and benefitted too by the insights she has on the habits and weaknesses of all of the opponents he draws in the lists.

She had told him too that all the contests were decided by the master of the games, who in turn had these things decided for him by her lord father who had spent a great deal of time selecting and matching the contests with one specific goal in mind, having the minor lord of House Tyrell reach the final tilt and emerge victorious to claim his daughter’s hand.

Will took a strange and almost savage kind of pleasure in repeatedly denying the proud lord the outcome he sought with such fervour, overthrowing every opponent they threw at him, quickly garnering the raucous support of the commons and his anxious lady.

She visits him every night before evenfall and he almost always must insist on escorting her safely back to the castle well past midnight most nights. They drink and talk together, she congratulates him on his victories and warns him of what to expect on the morrow and how he ought to deal with it when it dawns. He listens to everything she has to tell him, knowing that it means everything to her and that his pride and honour are no longer the only things at stake.

On the eve of his final tilt which is indeed to be against the young ser Theo of House Tyrell, as her father willed she slips into the pavilion she had had sent down to him, wishing him to be closer than a nearby pasture and a shaded elm tree should she have need of him.

“You rode very well today, ser Will.” She tells him, beaming as she enters and Will can’t help the sudden flush of pride that flares through him at that.

 He had known that he had ridden well today but coming from her the compliment sounds a hundred times better and he smiles and gestures her to a seat and fumbles to find her something to eat and drink. 

“My knight,” she murmurs softly, lightly squeezing his fingers as he hands her a cup of watered wine, “My brave knight, you have come farther than I dared hope,” she says, her small hand closing gently around his much larger one, feeling the rough calluses on the skin.

“Aye,” he agrees quietly, “And now there’s only Theo Tyrell between you and your freedom,” he says, managing a small, shy smile for her.

“Aye that’s so, but Will-“ she begins, her eyes wide and urgent as she gazes intently at him, her hand tightening on his, “You must swear to me that you will be careful, no heroic gallantries that get you killed on my account, swear it.”

“Jay these are only tourney lances,” he reminds her gently, a little confused by this sudden flush of fear on her part, “They are blunted and made to splinter, as they have every other time, I will be quite alright.”

“Theo Tyrell is not an opponent to take lightly,” she snaps, a harsh bite in her words that he’s never heard before, “He may have a rose upon his shield but I assure you he is not at all so delicate or sweet. He is cruel, harsh, a brute and a beast and he will do serious harm to you if he can, then make japes about it after, please ser, _please_ , you must promise me you will be careful.”

“He frightens you so?” Will asks quietly, looking into her eyes and knowing that to be the truth, a wave of harsh fury building up inside him at the thought that this is the man her father is scheming to have her marry in spite of all that.

He finds himself feeling inordinately protective over her, though he thinks he knows how she might feel about that, so he tries not to show it overmuch. He can’t stop himself from carefully slipping his hand around hers and giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze however.

“He does,” she confirms shakily, “And he ought to frighten you too, he is as skilled as he is cunning and cruel and he is utterly without chivalry or honour.”

Will blinks in surprise at that. Ser Theo is a well known knight and to his knowledge, has not shamed himself at this tourney, nor at any other as he can recall. “But he seems so-“

“Aye ser,” she interrupts in clipped tones and now that he realises how on edge she is he sees plainly that she’s as taut as a bowstring that’s been drawn back too far, “But how he seems and how he is are two markedly different things,” she’s twisting the fine silk fabric of her gown so roughly between her hands in her agitation that Will fears the creases may never come out, “My father is bannerman to the Tyrells, I know him in a way that you do not, _can_ not, know.”

Reaching forwards he clasps her fretful hands gently between his own, trying to soothe and calm her. Then a frightful thought strikes him and in his uncertain horror he blurts, “Sweet lady, has this man, this monster as you name him, has he ever, ever hurt you?”

“No, not as yet,” she admits in a tremulous little voice he hopes with all his heart he never hears from her again, “But he will, given the chance.”

“No.” He says, so firmly and strongly that it takes even him aback for a moment. Then he gathers himself and squeezes her hand again and says, “No, I will not let him do that.”

“He will hurt you too, if he can,” she breathes softly, gazing up into his eyes, “He knows the plan my father concocted to wed me to him, he will not take kindly to you having interrupted those plans, he will seek to punish you for doing so, ser, I, I-“ her breath hitches and catches and Will wants nothing so much as to take her in his arms and keep her safe until the end of days when she lowers her head and, shaking all over says softly, “I fear I have done you a great wrong, ser, I have put you in grave danger to try and spare myself, I am sorry, forgive me, please.”

Squirming forwards he slides two fingers gently under her chin and tilts her head until she’s looking up at him once again, “You need not seek my forgiveness, Jay,” he tells her quietly, “You have done nothing that might require that forgiveness,” pausing he tries to find the right way to say what he wishes to then finally, “Whatever the morrow brings I will face it, and gladly so. I am proud to be your champion, to fight for you in the way you wish I am proud that you looked on me and saw a knight in whom you could trust, not a common born hedge knight. I will never forget that, Jay, and I will always be grateful for it and gladly do all I can to help you in return.”

What she does next startles him so much that for a moment he fails to respond to it. Screwing up her face she launches herself forwards without warning, propelling herself into his arms, and hugs him. Once he recovers from the shock of this he finds a small smile tugging at his lips and he gently wraps his arms snugly about her.

Nestling in against him, they lie together like this for some time, their arms around one another, letting their worries melt away like morning mist and she feels calm and settled against him once more, her head resting on his chest, her arms draped around him, nuzzling in to him and seeming content for the first time in a long while.

After a long time, she takes a deep unsteady breath and looks up at him before murmuring, “All the  same, Will, please, promise me that you will be careful on the morrow.”

“I promise,” he tells her quietly, as sincerely as he can, knowing he’s done that well when a faint smile tugs at her lips and she nods, seeming satisfied.

The lie pains him. _A true knight would not lie to his lady, especially not with her favour on his arm._ He thinks to himself as he absent-mindedly strokes her hair. When the morrow comes he knows that he intends to do anything he must to spare her from a fate she so despises, whatever it might mean for him.

****

Metal clinks and creaks as Will clenches his hand more tightly around Storm’s reigns, patting the big war horse’s neck with a fond smile he doesn’t truly feel in an attempt to calm him. Would that his own fears could be allayed so easily.

“Ser Theo of House Tyrell of Highgarden. Ser Wilfred the Tall. Come forth and prove your valour.”

Unseen by Will, Lord Caswell’s herald had climbed laboriously up to the top of a tall platform and called in a loud, booming voice that seems much too large to come from such a small, frail man, summoning the final pair of challengers, summoning him forward to defend his lady’s honour as her silent champion one last time, to save her from the cruel fate that will await her if he fails to emerge triumphant from this last joust.

As this is the final joust of the tournament the lord has decreed a different set of rules to what has taken place thus far. In previous rounds it was enough to merely unhorse an opponent to claim victory over him. For this last contest a man who finds himself unhorsed may yet draw his sword and fight on victory only being granted to the man who manages to make the other yield to him for all the watching crowds to hear.

Will has a sneaking suspicion that this last rule change may well have been Jay’s notion. He’s sure she has enough wit and cunning to frame it un such a way that she would appear, in splendid show of gallant ignorance he has no doubt, to be in favour of Ser Theo, trained by some old, seasoned knight, holding a sword almost before he could walk but he’s heard enough from her over the past few days to know that she has a keen eye for a man’s strengths and weaknesses. She knows that his strength and size ought to give him an advantage over Ser Theo if they should both be knocked to the ground and able to continue fighting.

Taking a deep breath he rides out slowly onto the field once more, reigning up beside Ser Theo  and dipping his lance to Jay, trying to give her a reassuring smile in spite of his nerves and uncertainty. Ser Theo to his left looks half a God beside a beggar on his splendid black stallion, coat gleaming like pitch in moonlight, a lean, hungry look in his eyes. While Will sits beside him in dinted armour without device or ornament knowing that he’s unlikely ever to have as much wealthy in a hundred lifetimes as Ser Theo displays so nonchalantly in his arms and armour.

The lord wishes them luck, his eyes lingering on Will in a way that makes him shift and squirm uncomfortably. But he glances over and catches her eye and when she mouths ‘luck’ at him this time it warms his heart and makes his stomach plunge excitedly.

He takes his place at his end of the field facing Ser Theo who glances once more towards the viewing box, at Jay, before he snaps his visor down and braces himself atop his horse. Taking a deep breath, Will gives Storm a final gentle pat and readies himself for the first tilt.

The trumpet blares and Storm plunges forwards with single minded determination.

Heart hammering in time with the horses’ pounding hooves, Will couches his lance and forces himself to think only of his oncoming foe, not of his honour, not of his lady who can never truly be his or his confused feelings for her, things he’s never quite felt before that he’s not sure how to deal with. None of that matters right now, none of it can matter, all there is in the world is the golden rose on the green shield before him that’s coming closer and closer.

Will knows he has a sure seat and is proud of his ability to aim. The point of his lance goes where he wishes it to go and rarely strays elsewhere and right now he’s pointing it at the heart of that rose determined to drive its bearer from his seat and from Jay’s bedchamber.

The viewing stands blur and the sound of the crowd is somehow blocked out by the thunder of the horses charging at one another, churning up the ground and Will feels as separate from those around him as he would if they were across the Narrow Sea, in some other world a thousand thousand leagues from here, utterly isolated and alone but for the galloping horse between his legs and the advancing lance aimed towards his chest.

The impact of their collision jars up his arm and wrenches at his bad shoulder when he feels Ser Theo’s lance crash against his shield. Wood splinters fly in every direction, like starving birds finally released from a cage. Both lances have shattered cleanly and the result of their first pass elicits a ragged cheer from the watching crowd.

Will canters back to his place and accepts a fresh lance. Once more he clears his mind. Once more he waits, lance couched, shield clenched in tight, Storm vibrating with a familiar; comfortable warmth beneath him. The trumpets blare once more and once more Storm does as expected of him and thunders forwards.

This time, Will shifts his seat in the instant before impact and Ser Theo is too slow to react and interpose his shield. The point of Will’s lance strikes precisely where he’d meant it to; in the centre of Ser Theo’s almost overly patterned breastplate. The knight reels at the contact and a loud gasp goes up from the crowd. In the viewing stands, the young lady springs to her feet, her hands clenched into taut fists, watching every movement with her intense eyes.

Somehow, Ser Theo manages to keep his seat, though barely. When he yanks his horse’s head around and snatches up another lance as he turns to face him, Will thinks there’s a dark anger clouding his expression that wasn’t there a moment before and a strange, rather suffocating sense of dread seems to grip him as he too accepts a fresh lance in preparation for their third pass.

Again the wait. Again the lance, couched and ready, the shield braced, the teeth gritted in determination. Again the silence that descends as though all of the sound has gone forever from the world. Again the sudden, jarring announcement of the trumpet that this isn’t so. Again the headlong rush forwards as the horses lunge furiously towards one another, Ser Theo urging his mount on with savage, heedless kicks to the poor animal’s sides.

But this time something is different, unlike their other charges. This time something is wrong. Will senses it, feels it in his bones, in the gut he’s learned to trust for the number of times it’s saved him, before he sees it, and when he sees it his heart clenches and his stomach turns and bile rises in the back of his throat.

It all happens too quickly. From sensing to seeing to finally processing, an act that seems to take an age and in that time the horses have already crashed together, for what he knows in his heart will be the last time. Will’s lance strikes true at his foe’s chest once more but Ser Theo’s descends, well past Will’s body and a proper target and ploughs instead straight into Storm’s chest.

The big, faithful destrier who’s borne Will faithfully from one corner of Westeros to the next topples beneath him, screaming in agony and terror in a way that rends Will’s heart and makes it ache more than any physical wound he’s taken in tourney or in battle ever has.

Will feels utterly lost and disorientated as he tumbles to the earth in a terrifying blur of shifting colour and shape and motion, noise tearing at his ears like a hail of flaming arrows until he wants to scream himself just to try and drown them out.

He sees fragments of lances tearing around his face like small, sharp, lethal hornets. He feels the rush of air as he falls and tries to leap clear of his poor horse and then the rough, shattering impact as he strikes the hard ground. He hears Jay screaming in the crowd along with Storm’s continued, petrified shrieks, though they’re becoming fainter and fainter as her voice becomes stronger and clearer with every second that Will’s ears ring in defiant panic, not wanting to believe what’s just happened.

“Will! Will, you must get up, you must. Up, up, ser please!” She screams in desperation at him, her shouts so loud he feels quite sure her throat must be raw but everything is confusion and disarray and he can’t make sense of her words.

All he knows is the fresh smell of the earth beneath him and the sharper, far less welcome taste of blood in his mouth. But again, through his haze of pain and uncertainty, her voice reaches her once more, “Will, Will get up, get up I pray you get up,” her cries become even  more desperate an instant later and she cries thickly, as though crying....

_No that can’t be right._ He thinks blearily, _she cannot be crying, she would not weep for me unless I were dead, and I am not dead...Or mayhaps I am._

“Will!” his name again, his name called from her lips and somehow, someway, she manages to get through to him, “Will get up, get up now, get up, _now_.” She commands him, in such a frenzy that he fears for her, “Will he means to kill you, please, get up, ser, get _up_. For me, for me I beg you, rise, rise before he kills you!”

Will reacts to her words at last. He’s too disorientated and confused then, every inch of his body aching in protest at the recent fall, to say who it may be who wishes to kill him at that moment but he lifts himself up and manages to raise his shield in time to catch the vicious slash of a sword, a blow aimed at his head and one that had enough force behind it to cleave him in two, sent his way by the young Tyrell knight.

Rage comes to Will’s aid then. Rage for his poor butchered horse he can no longer hear behind him. Rage for the sudden cruelty that came to Theo Tyrell in an instant where he was defied and challenged and denied precisely what he wished. Rage for Jay and the fact that, were it not for him, her father would gladly marry her to this brute for the simple pleasure of having a Tyrell for a good-son and to finally see his wild daughter wed.

 Rage that comes to his defence and helps him unlock a last reserve of strength he didn’t know he still possessed, rage, tempered by the desire to protect Jay, to stop her falling into this man’s hands helps him rise and with him rises the crowd and they cheer and applaud and cry and above it all he can hear her voice, crying encouragement in relief and happiness and despite it all he manages to push himself to his feet where he then towers over Ser Theo who seems to realise his mistake a moment too late.

As the sudden rush of energy  floods from him he becomes altogether too aware of the injuries he’s sustained in the fall. Blood sheets from a deep wound in Will’s leg where he landed awkwardly on the shattered remnants of his lance, the thin spike of wood managing to slide beneath his armour and pierce through the flesh beneath. It causes pain to stab through him with every step but he grits his teeth and ignores it. A thin cut above his eye is causing blood to trickle into it, blinding and stinging, a constant frustration. And from the feel of his chest and the constricted nature of his breathing he has a sinking feeling that one or more of his ribs may be broken.

Nevertheless, he forces himself to stagger forwards as fiercely as he can, driving Ser Theo back a step or two as he manages to draw his own sword and hack furiously at the young knight opposite him. On and on they fight, driving one another back, Will’s injuries starting to tell as he sways on the spot, feeling lightheaded. But he can hear Jay calling his name from the viewing stands and that if nothing else gives him heart and strength he never knew he had.

Finally, just as he’s about to give up all hope, he manages to slip in behind Ser Theo’s guard and with a savage jerk, rakes his sword back over his blade, twisting as he does so and wrenching the weapon from his hands with a final rough jerk.

Time seems to stand still for a half a heartbeat. Then, out of reckless bravery or madness, Will is never quite sure which, Ser Theo bulls into him without warning, crashing hard against him and slamming into his already tender ribs with astonishing force. Will howls in pain, he can’t stop himself, and Ser Theo, grinning a terrible, bloody red smile above him, makes the most of his advantage and drives a mailed fist hard into the side of Will’s head but as he goes down, Will’s own scrabbling fingers catch hold of Ser Theo and drag him down with him.

As thunder roars its displeasure at the heavens above them and the clouds split to release a sudden torrent of rain down upon them, Will and Ser Theo of House Tyrell crash down together into the frigid dirt that’s quickly becoming mud as the rain pounds into it.

Will doubts that brawling in the midst of a rainstorm was not how Lord Caswell envisioned the end of his tourney and the crowning of his victor but it must be said that he undoubtedly has more experience in this than Ser Theo. The latter may have been trained at swords since he was old enough to hold one and taught the refined arts of archery and jousting but Will still remembers where he came from too, the streets of King’s Landing where this was as much his bread and butter as wooden swords and child’s bows were Ser Theo’s.

That being said, the young knight still manages to give Will a fight. His injuries make this awkward as every punch and kick and flail inflames one or more of the injuries that pepper his body and before long he’s beginning to feel faint, from pain or loss of blood or some other cause only a maester might determine he can’t say but his blows are becoming clumsier and heavier however hard he tries.

Wind howls around them like a starving wolf pack in the depths of winter and the crowd screams along with it but whether encouragement or insult and whether it’s directed at him or Ser Theo, Will never knows. Occasionally he catches the fleeting memory of Jay’s voice, calling to him amidst the tumult but he can no more say what she shouts to him than he can sprout wings and fly away with her.

Through all that confusion however, Ser Theo’s derisive sneer is something he can make out, “Yield, ser,” he snarls through a mouthful of blood from where the fall knocked out two of his teeth, “If ser you are,” he taunts in a mocking tone, “the lady is not fit to be won by the likes of you, a lowborn hedge knight. You would shame her by winning this fight.”

“The only shame I see to her is in you treating her as some prize to be won,” Will snarls back, that strange surge of energy pulsing through him again at Ser Theo’s words, numbing some of his pain and allowing him to launch himself at his foe and flip him onto his back, clanging the side of his helm with his fist on the way down for good measure.

Before Ser Theo can determine which way is up and which down, Will has made the question entirely irrelevant for him. Flipping up the knight’s visor he clumsily draws the dagger at his belt with thick, fumbling fingers but manages to shove the point of it in just under the knight’s eye.

“Yield, ser,” Will pants, unable to stop himself adding, “If ser you are or I swear I will drive the point of this dagger into your skull and send you to the gods this very instant.”

For a moment he fears that Ser Theo will be pigheaded and stubborn enough to force him to do just that but after feeling Will’s knee pressing even harder into his stomach than it is at present and feeling the dagger prick the skin beneath his eye, the knight whimpers and slumps beneath Will and mumbles, “I yield, ser.”

A faint wash of relief surges through Will at that and he manages a smile as he pushes himself laboriously to his feet, swaying slightly where he stands. They’ve travelled a ways away from the viewing box, their backs to the lords and so Will reaches down to help Ser Theo to his feet and alternatively help guide or else drag him over to the lord and lady to repeat his submission to them.

Before he quite manages to do that however, the ground rushes up to meet him again, though he never intended it to and everything turns black and silent around him.

****

When next he wakes he finds himself on a bed of soft pillows with thick furs draped over him but his first instinct is to continue on a fight and he sits up far too swiftly and groans loudly in pain and discomfort as his head begins to swim sickeningly, making him clutch it in both hands, trying to remember, trying to understand.

The same maester that had tended to his shoulder after his third tilt on the first day of jousting, a thousand years before, and chided him all the while he was patching him up bobs into his sight as he removes his hands gingerly from his streaming eyes, looking just as fussy and fretful as he had that day.

“Peace, ser,” he urges, placing a hand on Will’s uninjured shoulder, that he can find any part of him that’s uninjured and sound seems something of a miracle to Will as every inch of his body aches and burns in protest at the trials he’s put it through, but the maester still manages it and pushes him back down against his cushions once more, “You lost a lot of blood ,far too much, it’s a wonder you survived, sit still now, I saved you once today already I don’t wish to have to do so again.”

He turns his back and Will hears the clinking of bottles and cups as the maester fumbles with his jars of herbs and powders, muttering darkly about the dangers of tourney and the gallant stupidity of knights all the while, when he turns back to Will he presses a cup against his lips, “Drink, ser.”

“What-“ Will begins, confused but sure that he doesn’t want any milk of the poppy or dreamwine to further cloud his mind.

“It’s only water, ser,” the maester says impatiently, nudging the cup a little more firmly against his mouth, “drink I say.”

Will obediently does as he’s told. The water is cool and sweet and he’s never been so grateful for it in all his days, not even the time he spent beneath the scorching sun of Dorne. When he’s drunk as much as he can, the maester removes the cup and eyes him beadily, like an old, flustered owl, “How do you feel?” he enquires, not unkindly.

“Odd.” Will manages, deciding that that’s hardly the best word to describe his feelings. In all truth he feels drunk, lightheaded and unsteady, every motion however slight making him feel as though he’s standing on board the deck of a ship pitching in a high storm, not an experience he ever cares to repeat, and he hurts, he hurts all over.

With the sharpest throb of pain yet however comes a wince and the sudden remembering of why he aches so badly and for what he went through everything for, “Jay! He blurts suddenly, startling the twitchy maester so badly that he jumps, “Is she alright? Is she betrothed to me or-“

“Calm yourself, ser,” the maester tells him sharply, “The Lady Julie is well,” he says, putting a rather delicate emphasis on her name, her proper name, “She is most certainly not betrothed to you, you passed out, ser, before a hundred witnesses, Ser Theo was declared the victor and it is Ser Theo that the lady is set to marry.”

“What?” Will gasps, pushing himself up alarmingly fast, feeling the world pitch violently beneath him again but he doesn’t care, he has to get to her, to her lord father, to tell them that Ser Theo yielded, that he won the contest, that this isn’t right, this isn’t fair.

He pushes himself to his feet and the maester actually gasps, “Ser!” he squawks, dancing around Will and looking most aggrieved by the uncooperativeness of his patient, “This is not wise, I must insist that you return to your bed, you are not well enough for this.”

“I must speak with Ja- With the Lady Julie,” he corrects hastily, stumbling unsteadily towards the door, “And her lord father. At once.”

“It will have to wait, ser,” the maester flaps as Will continues his determined pursuit of the door, though he has no idea where he intends to go once he leaves this chamber, “On the morrow, when you are well again. The young lady has been most worried for you to be sure but all the same-“ 

“It will be too late on the morrow,” he insists flatly, “I must see her now, can you take me to her?” he asks, blinking down at the small fretful man in his grey robes and heavy chain.

“I will send for her, ser, but you must remain here in my care until you are well again, you are in no condition to be wandering a strange castle.” The maester insists, apparently deaf to Will’s pleas.

“I am going to find the lady with or without your help, maester,” Will swears solemnly, “So if you know where they are, please tell me and save me some wandering.”

“Knights!” the maester explodes, making the word a curse, “I swear, all of your wits leak out of your ears the moment you say your words. Very well ser, the lord and lady are both in his solar, they will not thank you for disturbing them, but I don’t suppose you wish to listen to that sense either, I’ll have naught to do with this folly, go if you wish, and no doubt they will return you to my care once more when you have fallen over again. But if you wish to go then go, ser, far be it from me to stop you.”

Will mumbles soft thanks over the maester’s continued ranting and stumbles unsteadily from the chamber. He realises that the man may have had a point, and likely more than one, in telling him to remain and rest and recover and not to trouble the lord and his daughter while they’re alone together, but Will can’t let this marriage pact standing a moment longer than it already has, not when he has the ability, nay the right, to put an end to it.

The lord’s solar does not prove difficult to find, Will wanders down one corridor and up another and then hears the sound of raised, angry voices, one of which he knows very well and after that all he needs to do is follow them and they lead him directly to the place and the people he seeks.

A blazing row is being barely contained behind the thick oak door that protects the lord’s solar and Will, freezing outside, leaning against a wall for support and wondering what he ought to do for the best, has no difficulty at all in hearing every word spoken.

“He’s a beast, father, you cannot do this!” Jay insists, her tone torn between fury and terrified desperation that makes Will want to burst into the room and take her in his arms and swear he shan’t let Ser Theo within a hundred leagues of her while he still draws breath, “He nearly killed Will!”

“You are too attached to that lowly hedge knight.” Her father’s voice retorts, cold and hard and unyielding as iron, “A common born wretch, by all accounts-“

“A true knight.” She interrupts him, her words containing no trace of fear now, but pure rage and disgust instead, “That lowly hedge knight as you name him has more honour in his pinkie toe than Ser Theo has in his whole body, aye, and in his horse too!”

“Enough, Julie,” her father growls repressively, “Ser Theo won the tourney and he therefore wins your hand, that is the truth of the matter, whether it pleases you or no.”

“It does not please me,” she replies cold and dangerously quiet now, “I am not some mare for you to award as you please father.”

“No, you are my daughter,” he snaps back shortly.

Unseen by either of them, Will pushes open the heavy oak door that swings forwards without a sound to admit him and sidles quietly into the room, better to see what’s happening, sensing danger fast approaching. Father and daughter stand five feet apart, staring each other down, Jay looking furious and scared, her father coldly furious and frustrated.

She snorts in derision at that, “Yes, I forgot for a moment there, what a foolish comparison, you care more who rides your horses than your daughter.”

Will is grateful he entered the room then. When her father’s face darkens with anger he stumbles between them to catch the blow meant for his daughter and pushes him back roughly, standing protectively in front of Jay, catching both of them off-guard.

“Will!” She cries, rushing immediately to his side and sliding an arm around his waist to help steady him, “I thought that you were dead,” she whispers tremulously to him looking pale and shaken, “You ought to be in bed, you don’t look well,” she tells him, looking concerned.

Before he can find an answer for her, some words meant to reassure, her father regains his balance and turns his fury on Will instead, “Be gone from here, ser,” he spits furiously at him, “You are not wanted here, return to your sickbed and consider yourself fortunate that I am willing to overlook that folly.”

“No!” Jay bursts out furiously against her father. Glancing once at him, her arm still tightly around him, keeping him steady, she sees his nod of agreement and then insists stoutly, “He should be here father, he is the rightful champion of the tournament.”

“He is not,” he father spits at her like an angry serpent, “He was bested when he lost his seat in the jousting, before that mummer’s farce of a fight and him sprawling in the mud, bested again by Ser Theo, making him twice the victor.”

“He only lost his seat because Ser Theo killed his horse under him!” she argues back flatly, giving him a protective little squeeze, “Any competent lord would have disqualified and shamed Ser Theo then and there.”

“Tourney mishaps occur all the time, Julie, it means little and less,” her father counters dismissively with a harsh look at Will.

“It wasn’t a mishap!” she rages, her face turning red with fury.

“Pardons, m’lord,” Will interrupts, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder to quieten her, “But surely a knight as chivalrious and honourable as Ser Theo will have told you what happened after we both lost our seats,” he says carefully, “How I bested him, drew my dagger and made him yield to me before I lost too much blood. The victory is mine, which I’m sure Ser Theo told you.”

The lords face darkens with fury and shame at Will’s soft words and eventually he snaps spitefully, “Ser Theo said nothing to me of this, ser, we have only your word for it, a word that I am inclined to doubt.”

He feels Jay flare up in anger beside him but he speaks first before she can, fighting to keep his head as he says calmly, “I swear it m’lord, on my honour as a knight.”

“A hedge knight’s pledge,” her father sneers derisively, “A hedge knight’s honour.”

“Were I so fortunate to have a daughter,” Will begins in a measured voice, “Particularly one so lovely as your Ja-Julie,” he continues, fumbling only slightly and fighting to stop his face from flushing now, “I would rather entrust her to a hedge knight’s honour than a highborn knight as unchivalrous as Ser Theo Tyrell.”

“Oh I take your meaning, ser, and the gain you see in this for yourself.” Her father replies with icy hostility, “You would rather I declare that Ser Theo rode a dishonest course and name you champion and bestow the rewards upon you,” he snarls at him, the soul of contempt as he hisses, “Wed my daughter to a hedge knight in place of a younger son of my liege lord.”

“Begging your pardons, m’lord,” Will says, forcing himself to remain courteous, “But that was not my meaning at all. I would have you name me champion because I won, my seat was surer in the joust before Ser Theo killed my mount,” he swallows hard, the pain of Storm’s death hitting him all at once now, “And I bested him again when we fought on with sword and shield. The man yielded to me and if he had a shred of honour he would have said so.”

Pausing a moment he turns to look down at Jay, a faint smile on his lips just for her, vanishing the instant he looks back to her lord father, “However, I will not marry your daughter against her wishes. All I would ask as your champion would be a new horse to replace the one Ser Theo killed under me and a small bit of coin as a champion’s purse, no more.” 

He allows those words to sink in and gives the lord some time to digest them before he adds in a softer voice with just the hint of threat in it, “Or you could continue down this false path and try and force your daughter to marry a brute and a liar. But I must confess to you then, m’lord, that I have been acting as her champion since the first day of tourney and I would fight a trial to deny him this, a hundred times over I would do so.” He sees the flicker of doubt and mayhaps even fear in the lord’s eyes as he speaks before he concludes, just as quietly as he had begun, “If you truly believe  Ser Theo is a better and truer knight than I then by all means...”

Silence follows this pronouncement and when it has endured for such a span that her father glares between them, Will knows in his heart he’s won. Looking down he sees Jay beaming at him, tears of relief sparkling in her light green eyes and he knows that she knows it too. Hobbling a few steps, he reaches down and takes her hand between his fingers, lifts it gently to his lips and brushes them against her fingers, “By your leave, m’lady,” he says with a small smile of his own.

****

Will walks quietly from stall to stall, examining each horse as he passes, palfreys and mares and coursers and destriers all brushed until their coats gleam, well trained and well bred he doesn’t doubt. In his head he knows that each and every one is a hundred times finer than his old war horse, but his heart tells him that not one of them can possibly be the equal of the quiet old warhorse he knew too well, the one he named against his old master’s counsel, the one he grew attached to despite his own.

He’s running his hands along the shining coat of a large, black destrier, trying to decide if they might get along when a disturbance behind him makes him turn to see Jay running towards him, looking much less a noble lady and much more a hedge lady than he would ever have believed. Her fine dress of blue silk trimmed with the best Myrish lace is dirtied and torn in place, snagged on branches and corners and who knows what else on her thoughtless dash down to the stables and her thick blonde hair is coming down out of the elegant, intricate knot it had been woven up in to, to tumble down about her shoulders.

When she reaches him she doesn’t slow her pace one bit and bowls into him with the force of the charging horses that Will knows well and he yelps in pain, unable to stop himself, as she crashes into his tender ribs.

Releasing him abruptly she hastily stammers apologies at him but he smiles and waves them away and embraces her once more, knowing she’s not done with him, feeling such a giant when he holds her in his arms, yet for all the difference in their sizes, he swears she fits perfectly against him, almost as though the gods had shaped them  for just this purpose.

“I needed to see you again,” she whispers, her arms still around him, eyes shining as she looks up at him, “To thank you properly, ser.”

“I thought your lord father had forbidden you from seeing me,” he says gently, a hint of concern in his tone, not wanting her to land herself in trouble on his account.

“The others take my father,” she curses darkly, refusing to let go of him, “You risked your life for me, ser, aye,  and nearly paid with it for the sake of saving me from a doomed marriage, I could not let you leave without thanking you,” she pauses a moment and then adds, in a slightly softer, more tender tone, “And I would rather you did not leave at all.”

Gently, absently, he brushes back a thick lock of her honey blonde hair and shakes his head, “I cannot,” he tells her, hardening his heart yet still feeling it ache at the words, “I dare not push your father any further, he is still a lord and I am but a hedge knight, if he told his guards to seize me and clap me in irons of chop of my head they would do it as soon as spit, no,” looking sadly down and wistfully down at her he tries to make his tone stern and certain, though he worries he’s having little success, “I must go, Jay,” he insists quietly, softly brushing her cheek with the tips of his fingers.

“But I want you to stay,” she breathes quietly, gazing beseechingly up at him with those eyes, those eyes he fears he can never refuse but he must, he must.

_It is for her as much as for myself that I must leave._  He reminds himself forcefully, _I will only enrage her father further if I remain and gods be good, if he took that out on her and forced some marriage out of spite or something worse I could never forgive myself, and nor would she._

“I want you,” she whispers to him, pressing in so close that he can feel her chest rise and fall as she breathes, pressing her even closer to him and her words and her eyes and the feel of her soft, hot form against him make it even harder for him to say what he swore to himself he would.

“You can’t have me, Jay,” he says, shaking his head and noting as he does so that even while he attempts to reject her, neither of them have taken a single step away from one another. “Your lord father was right about one thing,” he admits, a bitter taste in his mouth but still he admits it, “Beautiful highborn ladies can’t marry lowborn hedge knights.”

“Says who?” she demands, stamping her foot in frustration, tears splashing out of her eyes despite all her best intentions he knows.

“Well,” Will considers that for a matter then sighs and gestures hopelessly and vaguely around them, “Says everyone, m’lady.” He hopes the courtesy will drive home the point he’s trying to make but he ought to have known better; it only makes her more wroth.

“Then the others take everyone along with my father,” she declares hotly, “All of them, every other soul in this world save you and me and damn them all to seven hells I don’t care,” she says, pressing in against him, standing up on her toes and reaching out to him.

For a moment he almost submits, for a moment he almost surrenders but he makes himself stop and smile sadly and say, “If they ever do, then nothing in this world could stop me returning here for you. But until such a time comes, we must part, m’lady.”

“I told you,” she says, her voice thick with barely controlled emotion, “Not to call me ‘my lady’.”

“You did,” he agrees softly, “Yet that’s what you are.”

“It’s not who I want to be,” she tells him stubbornly, glaring at him for daring to refuse her and make this all so difficult and for a moment he wonders why he’s doing that as well.

“Well if we’re talking about wanting now, Jay,” he says with a hopeless stab at humour, “I’d want to be a king. Or a lord. Or anyone worthy of your hand and heart.”

“You _are_ worthy,” she insists with such fierceness that he almost believes it, “Worthy of me, worthy of any princess or queen, you are a true knight, ser.”

“Mayhaps I am,” he agrees quietly, “But I’m a true hedge knight and born of gutter blood like as not.”

“Is it so unthinkable to you that we might wed?” she breathes quietly, “Is that thought so impossible? It might happen, it could,” she insists with desperate firmness.

“It could,” he says with a soft sigh, “And I could teach this horse to walk on water but it don’t seem like to happen any time soon. Same with that wedding, one thing is as likely as t’other whilst your father still lives.”

“But he won’t forever,” she murmurs quietly, stepping in closer, “One day he won’t and then...”

“And then I would come back for you,” he promises solemnly, the words tripping off his tongue without his consent, but for once, he finds he has little desire to call them back, “If I had to cross the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, or from the lands beyond and fight through a hundred battles and wars and all the demons of the black hells I would come back for you, Jay.”

A faint smile tugs gently at her lips and she murmurs, “I would hold you to that promise, ser, nay, I shall hold you to it,” pausing a moment she says quietly, “but you are adamant now that you must leave me?”

“I am,” he admits sadly, wanting nothing more than to tell her that he’s not but he knows no good will come of his remaining to tempt her father’s fury further now.

“Then just promise me one thing before you leave, ser,” she urges quietly, looking at him with those bright, beautiful eyes he wishes he could spend an eternity staring in to. He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow curiously, inviting her to say on and she does, “Promise me that you won’t gallantly save some princess and wed her in thanks whilst I wait here for you to return to me, no matter how rich or beautiful she may be.”

“She could never be as beautiful as you,” he blurts out and she flushes in pleasure at the compliment and he clears his throat and tries to be more serious as he offers her his pledge, “I swear it,” he promises her, “by the old gods and the new, on my honour as a knight I swear it to you now,” he promises her faithfully.

That draws a larger smile from her and this time, when she stands on her toes and leans in to him, wrapping her fingers behind his neck and drawing him down to her, he lets himself answer her call. Her lips press against his, tender and soft to begin with, even as his air, cautious and careful, exploring the feel of her soft lips and warm mouth and his lips part on instinct for her tongue, though he can’t ever remember telling him to do that but how glad he is that they did.

She tastes soft and sweet, exactly the way he expected her to, if he could have had any expectations of this moment at all and she seems to enjoy him too because she wriggles in even closer to him, and her mouth presses more urgently against his, hungry and desperate and he answers in kind on some deep set instinct he never knew he possessed, his body demanding more of her, demanding everything she has and giving everything he has in turn.

This kiss, his first proper one in truth, lasts longer than he could ever say, and while he’s wrapped up in their embrace he forgets about the world beyond, the whole of it. It’s as if what she willed had come to pass, the others have descended from their frozen halls in legend and swept away everyone else in the Seven Kingdoms, leaving just the two of them entwined together with no-one to say that they may not be together like this for the rest of their days.

When they break apart once more he sees a faint shimmer of tears in her eyes once more and for one, wild, foolish moment he wonders if he’s done something terribly wrong in their kiss, clumsy and inexperienced as he is, but then he realises the reason for her grief when she says in a thick, choked voice, “Then I will wait for you, Will,” she promises him, so firmly and so fiercely that he knows it to be true, knows she means it, knows she would give up all she has and all she is to come travel with him if only they would let her.

Reaching up she strokes his cheek with her fingers and breathes softly and firmly, “You mustn’t go getting yourself killed in some battle or other now,” she tells him forcefully, “You must come back to me if you can, _when_ you can,” she corrects herself.

“Different roads will sometimes lead back to the same castle,” he tells her, still holding her in his arms, remembering the turn of phrase that some knight or lordling told him once and deciding that it feels apt here. “But I think I will see you again, m’la-Jay,” he says, then adds, a little more certainly, his voice so soft and faint that had she not still been cradled safe and close in his arms she might have missed it, “No, I know I shall.”

“If you take too long about it I shall be forced to take a horse and ride all of these Seven Kingdoms until I find you, I swear it,” she growls, with such ferocity that he has no doubt she speaks the truth.

“I believe you, m’lady,” he assures her, startled, “Though I don’t think it will be long,” he confesses thoughtfully, “I have a feeling.”

She allows herself a small smile as she admits to him, “As do I, ser.”

Standing up she presses a soft, tender kiss to cheek, and he recognises it as a farewell, a notion that’s confirmed when, as she draws away, she lightly knots her favour around his arm once more. “So you won’t forget me,” she whispers, pressing her forehead against his.

A little laugh escapes him then, he can’t help it, “I swear to you, m’lady-Jay,” he whispers to her, “If I forgot all else, even my name, I would remember you.”

“See that you do,” she tells him softly, and gives him one last kiss to his lips to make absolutely sure that he does.

After that, she approves of his choice of horse and helps him saddle it herself then watches him lead the big destrier from the stables and mount him while she remains  on the ground outside the stables, looking as if she wants nothing more than to leap up onto the horse behind him and try and make him or any force in this world drag her off again.

Instead, she dips her head to him and says softly, “Farewell, ser, be safe, now.”

“And you, m’lady-Jay,” he amends, catching the fierce glint in her eye at the courtesy, “I will see you again, I promise.”

With that, he turns his horse and urges him up into a canter, the fastest pace his still wounded, slowly healing body can take at the moment, determinedly not looking back at her but still being able to picture her growing smaller and smaller and smaller as he rides away, wanting nothing more than to wheel the horse around and return to her at a gallop, broken ribs and healing cuts be damned, pull her onto his horse and ride until there’s nothing but them for a hundred leagues around but he forces himself not to, and he forces himself not to come back.

Their time will come, someday, someday that isn’t this one and he knows that he can wait for that day to come, as long as it takes, and he prays that she will wait for him too.

****


End file.
